


Try, Try Again

by auraofdawn



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby Nero (Devil May Cry), Dadgil Week (Devil May Cry), Domestic Fluff, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Light Angst, Parent Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24942718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auraofdawn/pseuds/auraofdawn
Summary: Failure is the greatest teacher, and while Vergil loves to learn, he absolutely despises failing.(five times Vergil gave up, and one time he didn't)
Relationships: Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 174





	Try, Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> me 3 days ago: why haven't i written any baby nero & young dadgil??  
> me at 3am 3k words later: STILL NOT ENOUGH

Had Vergil known what a blasted name those fools had given his son, he would have never asked in the first place. 

But the nuns were nosy, brutish, rude women who held their Savior's grandson in their arms without slightest clue. He merely wanted to turn the tables on them, ask them a penetrating question that they would scramble to with a non-answer. He honestly expected them to admit to not even giving him one, what with how backwards the island was, perhaps they kept the practice of waiting til a child was of certain age to name it. But no, none of that could have been so, because the orphanage was dirty and crowded and faithless, so this boy was simply another mouth to feed. And they named him after a dirty blanket. 

They did not deserve to even breathe in his presence. 

It drives him to move faster, to scribble the last of his fake information on their worthless papers and snatch the boy from their clutches. He does not look back, and he does not even allow the boy to look back. Neither of them will ever need to see it again, lest they choose to lay waste to it and take Sparda's castle back for themselves. 

Hmm. Perhaps someday, if all his other plans prove fruitless. 

One portal later and he's back in his own space, Yamato, his coat, his books, and everything else accounted for. 

Plus, his new, infant son. 

Luckily, the boy has been quiet and restful thus far, so he can leave him swaddled while he readies for what the parenting books warned was a coming storm. Yet, as he hurries about, the stack of papers on the desk keep mocking him. Below all the nonsense he'd been forced to fill in, was one space that had not changed: _Nero_. 

What an awful, dreadful name. It stood for nothing but the worth of that damned blanket, which the nuns had the audacity to hand him over with! 

His fist absently clenches so much he has to sit down, to be surrounded by his books and research and that damn name. Surely, with all this knowledge at his fingertips, he can think of something better to call the boy? 

Mother had regaled them time and time again of how she so admired the classics, and of how _The Divine Comedy_ was one she and father particularly enjoyed. So of course, naming their sons had been as simple as that. It had been so exhilarating as a child, as he read anything and everything he could get his hands on, that there were books he'd been named after! A piece of literary history lived in his very name! Characters and plots and beautiful lines of prose that were about Virgil and Dante, journeying through hell. It hadn't quite been prophetic, with what little he had seen in his brief trip to hell, but it had meant _so_ much. 

Nero meant literally nothing. A tyrant, yes, and a horrible one at that. Vergil does not dare set that kind of precedent for his own heir. If they are to rule as Sparda did, they will do so effectively. Unquestionably, of mind, body, and power. 

Sadly, there is no character fitting of his son's abrupt arrival to be found in the pages of _The Divine Comedy_. Blake only spoke of humanity in vague metaphors, and of hell in overly-specific ones. He was a Romantic, after all, but such has certainly not been the tone set for his son's short life thus far. Even naming him after his favorite poet would do him no such good. 

Perhaps, there were better kings to consider? Alexander? He was simply great, not feared, not firm, and he destroyed himself in the end. 

No, no, his son should not begin his life already shadowed by the legacy of any previous ruler. Carrying Sparda's blood would bring enough of that stigma already. 

His pen flies across pages, scratching and stopping and pausing and slashing. 

Nothing. He has nothing. Hours pass, the windows darken. 

The baby finally screams for his father. 

"Hush," he commands, though the baby barely complies, if he can even hear over his own wails. 

The swaddle has loosened too far; it drapes all over Vergil's twisted arms and tangles with his sleeves, barely covering the baby at all. He sighs and seats himself back at his desk, one hand holding his son steady while the other reaches for the parenting book. There had been a decent diagram on swaddling, if he recalled correctly. 

Still, the baby squalls, little fists balling into the fabric of his father's vest indignantly. He had certainly picked up the demeanor of demanding royalty from _somewhere_. 

" _Nero_ ," he warns before he can catch himself with a firm slap to his own forehead. 

The boy quiets. 

Vergil's eyes and hands fall open and down, to the infant who still cries quietly but stares up, expectantly. Obediently. 

_It's too late_ , he realizes with a heavy sigh that ruffles the baby's thin white hair. Even with big tears still wet on his cheeks, his son chuckles at the breeze that tickles his little head. 

Vergil gathers up the remainder of the dark, dingy blanket in hand and begins swaddling his son. 

"Stay still, Nero," he says. 

Nero garbles in response. 

* * *

Nero does not need toys. This is what Vergil has decided. He is firm, he is resolute. 

_Nero_ will not have this, however. 

The parenting books went on and on about the need to strike a delicate balance between "fun" and "learning" in babies. Vergil did not agree. He can strike a concrete pattern of education that will nourish both Nero's small body and mind at twice the rate of a normal human child. Babies of any kind do not _need_ fun. That's just simple human coddling. When Nero gets older, perhaps, he can make his own fun, like his uncle and father once had. 

The alphabet puzzles and shape-matching sets he has are not games, nor toys, despite what the damned stores list them as. They are memory exercises and object training. There is no "game" to them, frankly, and Vergil does not understand how human parents can be so foolish. Here they had the very tools necessary to improve their children's' rapidly developing minds, and they treated them as mere toys! No discipline! No improvement! 

Nevertheless, Nero is and will be different. 

If he stops _whining_. 

He finishes the puzzles, matches the shapes, and fills in all the letters in minutes. Vergil would be proud, really, if the boy didn't make a mess of them immediately after. Sometimes, when he's particularly busy and left Nero in his playpen with them, he begins playing. The shapes get stacked into towers beholding the letters as decorations, or perhaps, their citizens. The boy then twists himself in circles making the puzzle pieces zip about as who-knew-what. Other times he simply tears it all down like the little tyrant he seemed determined to emulate (Vergil does not mind these specific displays, he must admit. His son would need to learn to destroy his enemies _eventually_ , of course). 

Each time he has discouraged Nero from this behavior, however, the boy doubles down. He'll refuse to demonstrate his memory or finish the alphabet, or just scurry away as fast as his stubby little legs would go, off to find something Vergil had somehow managed to not childproof. On one occasion, the boy had managed to not only break into his bedroom, but drag Yamato off a shelf and swing it around by its strings. Vergil had not felt his heart leap into his throat so thoroughly since... since he was but a child himself. 

Even now, Nero bores of his education and finds more interest in his own blankets. He sits out in the living space, well within his father's line of sight. Vergil can't be entirely miffed; perhaps the child will put himself to sleep this time. 

But a low thump pulls his head back with enough force to cause whiplash. Nero still sits on his rump where he had been, but his blanket is gone, and some of his puzzles are gone. Vergil makes a quick sweep of the living room to find the culprit: Nero's namesake blanket, rolled into a little ball and thrown into the playpen, alongside some of the blocks. 

Another BONK echoed at his feet and showed him more pieces scattered around, plus a clapping child laughing loudly at him. 

So, now Nero had made up new games to replace those he had mastered. It wasn't the worst concept. Vergil just wished the boy's boredom would be a lot quieter and less destructive. 

He settles for putting the boy back into the playpen, if he wanted to throw things into it so badly. He might as well cut out half the equation. 

A wooden triangle hits him in the back. 

Nero's laughter erupts. 

He is but a baby, one with very little exposure to the average human world, and he has somehow invented a game of ball for himself. Or, he simply sought to practice his newfound motor skills, which, frankly, Vergil can't entirely discourage. He simply needs to find his son a better outlet, and a less annoying target. 

Which would mean investing in actual toys. _Blast it_. 

* * *

On their next trip to the big box store, Vergil is confounded by the pure number of things that qualify as a "ball." There are branded ones belonging to organized sports he has heard of, but all which require teams and reliance on other, weaker, humans. Nero should never have need for such foolishness. Others are so gimmicky he cannot even imagine what their purpose could be, even to a child. Why should a ball be so sticky and squishy? Didn't that defeat the entire purpose of bouncing it back or throwing it effectively? Even in his own childhood, a toy as simple as a ball hadn't been so ridiculous. Children of this age were just being failed more than their feeble human bodies already would. 

The most practical examples he can find are those made of thin, uniform rubber, smooth, easy to clean, and light enough that he spies another child of Nero's age bouncing it on their face. Lovely. 

But their size confounds him. The damned things are either bigger than his own head or small enough for Nero to choke on. Why couldn't humans stick to any measure or practicality? Did they just allow their children to revel in the absurd simply because they could? It's ridiculous! And he had thought himself an unqualified parent! 

Nero's whines grow loud enough to shoo his father's exasperation away, in favor of focus. The boy reaches out with his short, fat arms in vain, for Vergil has already learned the perfect distance to make sure no "grabby" accidents occur again. If he is to break his own promise to himself and get his son a toy, he will do so _properly_ , so at least the boy could get some semblance of exercise. 

Absently, his father allows him to paw at the mid-size rubber ball. It's much too wide for his little palms, and he must whisk it away before the boy can put his mouth on it. There's another, smaller, green one that Nero touches with one finger and frowns at, for some reason. Perhaps the texture. With a sigh, Vergil realizes they've exhausted an entire aisle of toys. He steers them away amidst more confused babbling from Nero. 

They reach the end of the aisle and turn, only to be faced with a large net-like structure holding dozens of balls. 

The boy squeals at it, and Vergil can only sigh. The price tag appeals to him first of all, perhaps because they look the cheapest, and are not branded for any specific game. He reaches in to pull out one of a lovely blue shade. It's certainly light, nicely smooth, and not too large for any growing child. Nero is ready to throw himself out of his seat for it, so his father hands it over carefully. 

Immediately, Nero hugs the toy, and it fits perfectly between his round chin, stubby arms, and belly. 

Vergil cannot help but sigh softly at the sight. Was this the kind of spoiling the book warned about? He certainly hoped not. It wasn't spoiling if it served a cause, certainly, and it would only be this one. For now. And hopefully for many months to come. 

* * *

Nero will not stop crying. 

He has cried long, and he had cried loud, but he has never gone _this_ long. The ridiculous sight of stuffed animals and plastic figurines don't appease the boy as they typically do. Even when Vergil cannot figure out exactly what he needs or wants, the boy usually wears himself out. He does not cough or sneeze, and his diet seems to be fine as far as one can tell. But no amount of food, changing, swaddling, bathing, or even humming will appease the child. 

Even now, Vergil is driven to bouncing him in his arms for whatever amount of comfort his awkward gait can offer, because the book insists on its effectiveness. But Vergil is starting to contemplate returning the damn guide, even nearly a year later. If they saw Yamato, surely, they would give him his money back. 

Nevertheless, his son cries and cries and cries. 

He scours through more books. 

The only lead he has related to a chapter on illness. It warns of the worst parenting nightmares, apparently—fevers, breathing issues, even sudden, random death. By god, humans were more fragile than he thought. He had skipped the section entirely thus far, because, well, they're demons. They don't get sick. He and Dante had certainly injured themselves plenty throughout their brief childhood, but their fast healing only enabled them further, much to their mother's dismay. Any sneeze or cough was usually the result of dust or a drastic temperature change. 

Even at this young age, Nero must be capable of _something_. Vergil already suspected that the boy had keen hearing, as he seemed to react to the slightest sound in his infancy, and he would always stir when his father drew near. Being slightly more robust now just meant he would develop even faster, and prove his strength even more often. 

He can tell that his son scratches at his right ear a lot. So much so that it begins to look redder than rest of his screaming face. Vergil digs out some of the infant mitts from Nero's early days, but they of course no longer fit. The closest thing he can find to replace them is a worn-out sock that he can't believe he even has. But even with it tied around both of his small fists, Nero still reaches for the ear that appears no less inflamed than before. 

It would be wonderful if the child would just. Stop. Crying. Vergil even asks, _nicely_ , several times, just to see if some illusion of comfort will help. It does not seem to. He's willing to wait this out, at least to see if the boy can. But the strength of his young lungs is his most prominent skill, and Vergil can only stand it for so long. 

He sets the boy into his crib, closes the door, and leaves. Nero will tire himself out and sleep. He _must_. If he has the blood of Sparda within him, he will preserve. This kind of pain will be nothing to him in the future. 

So Vergil settles into the farthest corner of the living room and reads. Even if the boy goes on for a bit longer, his focus should be more than enough to drown him out. 

But it is not. 

He's not sure when he passes out. His chest leaps, because he's so used to passing out with the tiny but heavy weight of his son on his chest. Those infant nights had been long and difficult, but they were supposed to be over now that Nero was walking and occasionally talking. Yet, they're still here. His chest stutters unbearably as his keen ears twitch and reach for sound. 

His feet are striding towards the bedroom before he even thinks about it. 

Dawn has broken, and Nero is still crying. Hiccup-y, quieter sobs, but tears as fresh as those he'd left him with, nearly twelve hours before. Has he even slept? _Could_ he even sleep? What else was that reddened ear hiding? 

This is too long, even by human standards, as his books tell him. Human babies shouldn't be able to cry so long, it claims, because at that point they should either be recovered, resting, or dead. 

Nero is not dead, obviously, _thankfully_. But he's very unwell. 

Vergil's heart rate will not allow him to rest any longer. 

* * *

There is a small clinic, rather than a hospital filled with those who are worse off and deathly curious. 

The doctor is an older, kinder woman. Vergil does not think on all the pesky emotions that her patient tone of voice and bright eyes bring to mind. She still asks too many questions for his liking, but there are some he hadn't even thought to note. At least she is thorough. 

In the end, it's as simple as taking a glance inside Nero's ear, despite his increased wailing, to find an infection. One that even a hybrid should have been able to overcome, but Nero could not. Not without the prescription that the doctor happily hands over, assuring Vergil with a knowing look that he despises. 

Still, even as his resolve fails and he feels his neck protest against his constant glances at the ground, beyond Nero's tiny, crying form and the hoods on both their heads. 

Medicine was certainly outside his expertise, but he could not deny it to his son any longer. Even as he readies it, he catches a whiff of the stuff, and it's too sweetly flavored for anyone besides a child. Still, getting Nero to drink it isn't easy; his mood is completely and utterly soured. Vergil can't necessarily blame the boy. One of the first points in the book was that children cried because it was the only form of communication they had. Nero had certainly communicated his discomfort enough, and his father had tried to ignore it. 

No longer. At least, within reason. 

"Drink, Nero," he pleads, like he'd pleaded him to quiet, to settle, to stop. Yet Nero kept squirming, because his father had chosen to forsake him for an entire day, and sins were not easily forgiven. Even a nearly year-old, he would not show his father much mercy. And he was justified. 

"Please," it comes out in a whisper, but it actually brings the baby to pause. Perhaps his ears were impressive, and this illness was gnawing away at it. 

Wordlessly, easily, Nero allows him to tilt the little vial into his mouth. Finally, Vergil allows himself to breathe all the stress out of his heightened shoulders. "There you go," his hands mindlessly run down the boy's small back. 

The regret will not soothe so easily, however. But it would certainly do them both well to remember. Nero could not, certainly, so his father will. 

This has been a day and night he cannot afford to forget. 

* * *

The park is a pleasant surprise. It's close enough to walk to, no matter how tired Nero claims to be. There is but one playset installed so that only one family at a time would dare use it, surrounded by olden weeping willows that offered enough privacy to dare using his power every now and then. But what he most liked, enabling the ability of both father and son to remain occupied at once, was the light. Just enough to see Nero from distance, and read from any book he liked, without the blasted sun threatening to scald their pallid skin. 

Even by human standards, its perfect. For all his rotten luck thus far, Vergil would almost assume it's the universe's way of righting itself, slightly. For all the perils his sudden son has brought him, they have at least one place where all can go as planned. 

At least, until Nero grows bored. 

He doesn't often get involved with the nature of the park much, and for that Vergil is grateful. But they have come at the start of a great spring superbloom, and even the relative shade of the willows has given birth to an impressive display of wildflowers. Nero is rightly enthralled, and sets about romping through the grass much more than the playground. 

Vergil laments the amount of grass stains he'll have to scrub out later. 

Still, Nero squeals in delight as he sets himself rolling down small hills of green, yellow and blue. It pulls at Vergil's ever-wearing patience, but he finds himself unable to feel completely annoyed. He is, perhaps, curious. 

"Da!" 

Vergil turns to find his son presenting him with a handful of dandelion stems. Most, missing their trademark seedlings. 

"For you," Nero announces, a wide grin set upon his face. 

"Those are weeds, Nero," he tells him, eyes already back on the page. "They're mere pests." 

"No flower?" 

Vergil shakes his head. 

Nero scampers off. 

It feels as though the pollen barely settles back into the air—trying its damnedest to tickle Vergil's nose all the while—before Nero is back with a greener handful. 

"Clovers are also weeds," he informs the boy. 

"But look!" Nero brought his hands closer, pointing at tiny, daisy-like blooms dripping off the stems. "Flower!" 

"It's still just a weed, Nero." 

His son's smile morphed into a grimace—if one could even name that face on a child of only eighteen months. The boy's face was simply too small to encapsulate such complex emotions. Vergil was not about to waste time searching for them. 

Even then, he only hopes Nero will give him enough time to finish his current chapter. Then they can leave and he'll perhaps search through his books on horticulture. They were mostly demon-based in focus, but he knew that many varieties shared genomes with human ones, and Nero would need to learn the difference sooner than later. It would certainly not do to have a Son of Sparda snuffed out by demonic trees mistaken for a human growth. 

He hears the rapid shifting of the grass again and sighs. Only so many breaks could come his way. 

There is a small amount of amusement that bleeds into his chest at the sight of his son—Nero, stomping quickly but surely with yet another bundle of greenery clenched tightly in his little fist. Perhaps it could have even been pride, he's not sure. 

Nero plants his feet like the demon tree itself and hoists his prize for all to see: a picking of blue geraniums. Miraculously still intact, with long, healthy steams to boot. The boy had done well not to completely destroy them. 

"Flower!" he exclaims with a firm voice, high and nonthreatening as it still was. 

Vergil's lip curled upward. "Yes." 

"Yes!" Nero held them up victoriously. 

Vergil allowed the rest of his stubborn laugh to filter out, even as the pollen still threatened to take root in his lungs. He began to pack up his book, lest Nero run off to add to his collection of grass stains, but his son remained at his feet and remarkably ready to go. He was not about to question his turn of luck, at least, until he reached out his hand and was met with Nero's stem-filled, dirty palm. 

"Nero," he warned, "you must leave the flowers." 

"Wha?" he looked shellacked, wide blue eyes looking for the world within his father's. 

"I won't have this mess at home," he reached for his son's fist, only for the boy to snap it away, flowers still in hand. 

"No!" 

Vergil's native frown set in alongside his burning patience. "Nero." 

"Noooo!" The boy leapt back further, his entire tiny frame curling protectively around his makeshift bouquet, as if his father would tear it from his very hands. 

He was certainly considering it, if the child kept it up. Still, he kept his voice firm and clear, with perhaps the smallest hint of his growl: "Leave. Them." 

Nero's eyes widened considerably. His father had no idea if that meant he understood the demonic annunciation, but he hoped so. A smaller part of him hoped it wouldn't only take fear for the boy to comprehend their family's... ability. There could be no place for a weakness like it if he was to be strong, and stronger than Vergil by far. Strength like that would start by letting go of a few measly blooms that wouldn't survive away from their roots. 

Still, the boy's gaze remained locked on the petals as they gently floated out his grasp, the wind taking them in hand back towards the playground. 

Vergil did not wait for his son to take his hand, so he grasped it without mind to the remaining dirt and stickiness of sap that glued their hands together. He did not and would not stall their departure, lest the boy blow up any further. He certainly could, given his recent discovery of the ability to refuse orders. But what did lessen his grip was the slow gait that his son walked with, like all the energy had left him, but not like how he typically tired himself out. Before, he could still cling to some kind of excited energy on their way home, enough to at least get to the door and collapse on the couch. All of that was gone, replaced, by this slow, sad, little boy. 

Nero's persistent sniffling and deep huffs was all that he displayed, and Vergil knew it wasn't the pollen's doing. 

All that waited them at home was a night quieter than Vergil had felt, heard, or seen since Nero's first arrival. Quiet was all he had wanted, _demanded_ since then, and it had been so far between every moment they had. Yet, now that it was here, he could not stand it. 

Even bedtime was too silent for his liking, and Nero seemed determined to go down without a peep. 

Vergil knew before he shut the door that he could not allow another minute to pass like this. He stopped only to pick up his coat on the way out. 

* * *

The windowsill shined like a natural highlighter, stretching across the living room to his desk, ending precisely on the passage he pasted a note upon. This was the third horticulture book he'd rifled through, and there were so many options to consider. It would take a long time to evaluate and execute each method, but perhaps it would become a welcome challenge. He hoped, at least, that Nero would learn something. 

At the very thought, little footsteps echoed off the walls and planted long shadows in the window's light. 

"Da?" a sleepy voice wondered. 

"Nero," he greeted. 

"Food?" 

"Take a seat." 

Blearily, the toddler made his way to his high-chair, somehow standing in place half-asleep while waiting to be lifted into it. Vergil obliged and left to get breakfast, leaving the boy to scrub the sleep from his eyes. When he finally put his little fists down and took a good look around, he froze. 

On the table in front of him was a crystal vase of blue geraniums. Perfectly cut and arranged, blooming in the morning light. In the wide-open windowsill behind it, newly potted plants lined the shelf, little sticks marking each species. 

Nero's little jaw gaped as open as it could. 

Vergil wordlessly placed a bowl of cereal in front of the boy. His son almost jumped. 

Still, the child regarded his father wearily, little fists balled his front of his mouth even as those pallid cheeks became pinker. "Flowers?" he asked meekly. 

Vergil could not help the upward curve of his lips. "Yes." 

* * *

Dante had been stupidly easy to find, the first time. Vergil hadn't even been looking for him, honestly, and yet his brother's presence had been impossible to miss. He was supposedly a professional, and yet his demon hunting destroyed countless buildings, drummed up a racket any human could hear, and he fooled around so often that his targets often escaped. It was no wonder he barely made enough to get by. 

Still, the address burns a hole in his pocket, on his desk, in his own home. 

It's only there for an emergency, he tells himself. If Nero ever needs to flee, if Vergil can't take him himself— 

Nero will have somewhere to go, someone to protect him, even should his father fail him. He will not need to wander or starve or wonder. As incapable and idiotic as Dante may be, he is still a Son of Sparda. Nero's only chance to live up to their legacy is to be trained by at least one of them. Humans had already failed the boy. It would not happen again. 

Perhaps it would be for the best if Vergil were dead before he ever witnessed his brother's attempt at parenting. It would certainly drive him to commit fratricide, should his usual reasons fail to motivate. 

Still, Nero is growing, and he tests his father's strength of will more each day. 

At first, it was the little things. Nero's hair had become unbearably long, falling in front of his little eyes so often that he couldn't do a thing without brushing it out of the way, often getting his sticky little fingers caught in the strands. On one occasion, Vergil had been forced to cut him free, despite his sobbing and shaking at the sight of Yamato's true size and sharpness. Perhaps he was still too young to properly behold devil arms, but he still needed to see them if he was going to learn at all. 

So, carefully, as the parenting book suggested, he gathered the boy under a long sheet and slowly summoned a tiny pair of scissors. He showed them to Nero first, so that he wouldn't be frightened by the cut. The blue glow seemed to soothe him, as he reached out towards their shadows on the floor. But Vergil had to nudge his chin back up so that the cut would be level, and little strands of snow-white hair floated gently past his son's wide eyes. 

As Nero blinked through his new line of sight, his father could see how much better his mood became. Thankfully, the boy didn't appear to have the same dense fear of haircuts as the book described. Yamato would just have to be relegated to its proper use from now on. 

He took the opportunity to pull the rest of Nero's troublesome bangs back, to cut them as close as possible, and his son squirmed. 

"Nero," he warned. 

"I can see!" the boy exclaimed, shuffling his arms under the mass of the sheet. 

"Yes, but you're not finished yet." 

Nero shook his new locks free from his father's grip, expertly dodging the summoned scissors. "Done now!" 

"Nero—" Vergil grabbed for the boy's little shoulders, but the slippery surface of the sheet evaded him, and Nero leapt from his seat with glee. 

"No more!" he called back, and the child even ran in evasive maneuvers. 

His father sighed and knelt to collect the small pile of hair. He heard footsteps still jogging about, and eventually sensed the boy's return. He looked up to catch his son studying himself in a mirror. 

_He looks like Dante_. 

Vergil could not stop the thought, so he settled for mentally stabbing it with a sword. His son, the _one_ thing he had that his twin did not, preferred to wear his hair down like the foolish uncle he didn't even know of yet. If he had his way, Nero wouldn't know of said uncle until adulthood. If his luck kept in pattern, they would meet momentarily. 

But the boy turns and smiles, exclaiming how much he likes the swish of his new, bouncy bangs, and Vergil's frown falters. 

It did look better than Dante's typical bowl cuts, if his memory served well enough. It had been years now. The bombastic teen who hadn't even named his so-called business before they fought had finally done so, and the name he wound up using didn't even suit him. 

Devil May Cry is far from a successful business, and yet Vergil cannot avoid it. 

It doesn't advertise, its hidden in the worst part of the city, and it doesn't even have a dedicated phone line. One must track down an informant with the latest number, and acquire a password. Why on earth Dante would make it so difficult to even get willing customers is beyond him; the man hid from nothing, least of all their shared heritage. 

Occasional newspaper articles covered "the infamous white-haired devil hunter," but only on page three or four. They were little blurbs about demon attacks subdued by the mysterious young man who refused to give comment. Vergil makes mental notes of these incidents, but he also tucks the cut-outs away. He doesn't need to, but he does. 

He should stop. He has Nero under control, mostly. The boy is learning and growing faster than most gifted humans, and Dante would have little to offer, if not ruin. Giving up this silly trail will be one less thing to worry about, consciously or subconsciously. One more thing for Nero that he can focus on more keenly. 

But Dante is not a toy, or an illness, or some needless dalliance. Whether Vergil or demonkind like it or not, he will continue to exist, as only Dante can do. It's foolish to think he can hide an entire man from his curious little boy, let alone one that looks nearly identical to himself and his father. Nero is already starting to ask so many questions, the parenting books are all Vergil can use to keep up. 

At other times, he cannot help but note when they are out on a cross street that leads to his brother's office. He never makes the turn, but his eyes always follow the street name until they are far out of sight. Nero doesn't notice. He doesn't know enough to notice, despite his bowl-headed hair and wide blue eyes and that thick-lipped pout that Vergil swore against his entire memory did not belong to him. 

Vergil didn't believe in fate, exactly. At one point in his life, it had only existed in logical conclusions: such as which meant Sons of Sparda were doomed to fight to death. But he and Dante hadn't killed each other—and Dante had done quite the opposite. And now that Nero was here, well, he certainly wasn't racing to raise another tower and fight his twin again. All his current goals revolved around his son and the training of their powers. Dante, too, had managed to train that same power by himself, to the point where he and Vergil had stood at the doorway to hell, evenly matched. 

Dante will be ridiculous and irresponsible and a horrible example. But he is a worthy opponent; a tempered blade of invaluable training. And he will not reject Nero. Vergil does not know what convinces him, but some traitorous lump in his chest knows it irrevocably. 

The next time they pass by the cross street to Slum Avenue, he takes hold of his son's hand and turns left. 

"Where we go, Da?" Nero wonders aloud, sticking his right hand into his mouth. 

Vergil takes a deep breath. "We are going to meet your uncle." 

"Unca?" he gets so close for his first try with an unfamiliar word. Their reading was doing him well, but he would have much more practice, if this went well. 

Vergil knows better by now than to hope so much, but he cannot stop. 

"Yes," he holds the doorhandle for a long second, and pushes with all his will, "Uncle Dante." 

The door swings open wide as father and son venture inside, the low hum of a wild guitar riff greeting them in tune. 

**Author's Note:**

> the prompts i picked, in order, are name, toys, injury, flowers, & discovery (can we just collectively agree to not point out how I forgot one? this is 6k words as it is, its 3am, dadgil week is technically over,,,,)
> 
> -borrowing [thewritingsquid's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid) "da" because its UNBEARABLY CUTE and tbh i can only imagine it from baby nero anymore so whats the point in fighting it?? would i even be writing this if not for disaster dad? probably not!  
> -and in case you're wondering YES i looked up flowers to specifically pick geraniums, which mean "gentility and determination" according to the actual PLANT SYMBOLISM wiki lmaooo  
> -summoned scissors! :D  
> -the part i was most nervous about was the illness, but then i remembered the last time i had an ear infection my parents literally made me stew for a couple days before taking me to a doctor, who then prescribed me literal baby medicine (i was at least in high school) so uh, it was a humbling experience all around. vergil at least has the defense of literally not knowing whether nero could fight it or not?? i'm not trying to make him look THAT bad, i swear!
> 
> no set lore here besides "vergil raises nero" and "vergil doesn't fall into hell" bc if i thought about it more i'd have another longifc on my hands and i still need to finish the one i have lol


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